


Romadrabbles

by Shortcake



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-27 07:32:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12576800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shortcake/pseuds/Shortcake
Summary: Sometimes I feel inspired. Sometimes I write. I told my FC and now I'm uploading half-finished fanfic at 1am. Inconsistent characterisation and backstory for my WoL abounds.





	1. Savior of Skysteel

**Author's Note:**

> This is literally a written interpretation of the MCH unlock quests that's why it's unfinished I had no motivation to

The realm of Eorzea was full of many wonders, and Romarique Portelaine was one of the few to have seen so many as he had. From sights so common as the Rhotano Sea and the limestone spires of Limsa Lominsa, to the inner workings of Dalamud itself, his title and duties as Warrior of Light had made him quite the well-travelled man. So it was that he found himself trudging across the Steps of Faith towards Ishgard not marvelling at his chance to see the city that so rarely accepted outsiders, but rather cursing the bastard Lolorito for putting him in a situation where he was going to have to put up with such damnable cold for the foreseeable future. He may as well have stripped down to his underwear, for all the good his robe seemed to be doing, the cold Coerthan gales biting through to his very soul in a way he’d not known since his battle against Shiva. For not the first time since Hauchefant had granted what remained of the Scions asylum, Romarique found himself wishing he’d instead returned home to the caverns under the Shroud. Alas, such fantasies were little more than daydreams. Not only would it be at the very least mildly impractical to serve the realm hidden among people even more reclusive than Ishgardians, but the entire reason he’d become an adventurer was because he’d been so drunk he couldn’t remember which hole he’d come out of.

Contrary to popular belief, Romarique had not put up with Eorzea’s distrust of duskwights out of the goodness of his heart and a fervent desire to be one of the ‘good ones’.

Ishgard was hewn from stone and steeped in history. It was an elezen thing, really, Romarique could say with reasonable certainty as possibly the only person in Eorzea to have seen not only Ishgard and Gridania, but the bustling (and mildly overcrowded) underground caverns that he still longed to call home. It all came down to pride. Pride in what had been achieved, and pride in who they were, both cumulating in a general stubbornness to let go and move on to better things.

But ingenuity and curiosity exist even in the most traditional societies. Though house Fortemps had been kind enough to give a tour, Romarique couldn’t help but show himself around afterwards. As homesick as he got sometimes, he couldn’t deny that he had developed a certain amount of wanderlust during his life as an adventurer, and he often found himself roaming for the simple pleasure of doing so. This specific outing had lead him down into Foundation and towards a terrible din. Skysteel Manufactory, he recalled, though is tour guide had been rather brief on it. Even as he pondered upon the building’s identity, he kept walking forwards, and much to his surprise, the door to the heart of Ishgard’s technological advancement swung open with no resistance.

The noise inside was even worse, a constant, discordant orchestra of whirs, clangs, and the beating of bellows. Romarique cringed and reached into his pocked for his earplugs, simple little things that had proven their worth almost as many times as any of his more offensive tools. With the noise muffled to what he could only assume most non-duskwight Eorzeans lived with, his mind was free to observe the more interesting aspects of the manufactory. It was surprisingly small, for what it was, and seemed to be built with an alarming amount of wood for a place filled with furnaces. The smell of sulphur was strong enough that there was little doubt it would follow him back out the door, clinging stubbornly to his clothes (a phenomenon Romarique was used to and his employers and co-workers often disliked). It was also, in perhaps the starkest contrast to anywhere else in Ishgard, positively sweltering, and Romarique could almost feel himself begin to sweat through his heavy mage’s robes.  
The place was lightly staffed, with most of the people present too far buried in their work to pay him any heed. He did, however, manage to catch the attention of a device being held by a young wildwood fellow in the middle of the room. He was far more appropriately dressed for his environs – loose clothes he evidently wasn’t afraid to get covered in grease, dirty blond hair pulled back into a ponytail, goggles to protect his eyes, and thick work gloves to protect his hands. His eyes darted from the device in his hands, then up to Romarique, then back and forth again several times before he finally saw fit to approach.

“Interesting, interesting…” the man murmured, still seemingly unable to decide where to look. “Tell me, you wouldn’t happen to be interested in becoming a machinist, would you?”

Oh. So that was why the door had been unlocked. Still, how much could it hurt to indulge the man a little? Surely it couldn’t be any more absurd than the skills he had learnt from Y’mihtra. “Perhaps. What is a machinist?”

Even such a non-comital expression of interest was enough to make the other elezen’s face light up. “Why, a machinist is a wonderful thing! A wielder of firearms, though I assure you they are no ordinary marksman, for by their waist they wear a – wait just one moment, would you?” Romarique was inclined to believe that he, like usual, didn’t really have the option to decline the man’s request, for as soon as he had asked for patience he was off. He leapt over and behind the manufactory’s desk, and pulled out a silvery, metallic box. With equal enthusiasm, he returned to Romarique, almost forcing the device into Romarique’s hands. “An aetherotransformer! ‘Tis a device of my own creation, not only does it act as a convenient toolbox, but it takes in an amount of the wearer’s aether – a harmless amount, mind you – and converts it to be lightning aspected so that it may then be used to power a myriad of mechanical marvels to aid the machinist in battle! A-as soon as I manage to create said marvels, that is,” he followed up somewhat sheepishly, shoulders slightly drooped. “However, I assure you that shan’t be long!”

Romarique looked down at the device that had been thrust into his hands. It was around the same dimensions as his book on arcanamia, though thicker, and possibly even slightly heavier. Strapped to it were a wrench, what Romarique could only guess was ammunition, and more gauges, buttons, and switches than he could possibly begin to understand. An entirely new set of skills, taught to him by a man who clearly believed in what he was doing and – perhaps most importantly – seemed to not care at all that Romarique was so obviously duskwight, or his status as the Warrior of Light. Surely there were worse ways to spend one’s time: constantly thinking back on the events conspired by a certain lalafell, for instance.

“Alright,” Romarique said in his usual soft tone of voice, “you’ve won me over.”

A gentle smile wormed its way onto Romarique’s face as the other man’s expression shifted from anticipation to elation. “Wonderful! My prospectometer steers me right once more! I am Stephanivien de Hailenarte, though please don’t feel the need for any formalities, all are equal here in the manufactory. That is exactly why I am creating machinistry, in fact. It takes years of training to become a knight, but with my inventions, why, even commoners shall be able to fight to defend their homes!” Stephanivien threw his arms wide, and a few half-hearted cheers ran out through the manufactory. “The other noble folk don’t yet see the value of this, but given time I am sure we can win them over!

“Ah, but you do not need to hear that now,” Stephanivien said as he shuffled on his feed into a slightly less exuberant pose. “What you need now is to be shown to our master of marksmanship, to get a carbine into your hands.” He paused as he took a proper look at the heavy, overly ornate, and now somewhat sweaty robe Romarique was wearing. “Perhaps some more, ah, fitting attire as well. Now where has he gone…?”

As Stephanivien trailed off, he turned around to begin his search for the wayward master of marksmanship. The search ended almost as soon as it began, though unfortunately not due to finding the man. Rather, Stephanivien barely stopped himself in time to keep from running straight into a poor hyuran maid. She was of a dainty build, barely coming to the elezens’ chests, with fine golden hair tied up in delicate plaits.

“I-I’m sorry, milord,” she stammered, “but Rostnstahl is gone.”

“Gone…?” Stephanivien’s face, for the first time since Romarique had met him, shifted to an expression that could not be construed as positive. With wide eyes, a furrowed brow, and slightly parted lips, he was very much the picture of confusion.

“Yes, milord, he left his resignation on the desk this morning.”

“Gods damn it all!” Romarique reflexively leapt back and reached for his book at Stephanivien’s sudden outburst, a reflex honed over moons of constant fighting. “We can’t afford to lose him! Not now! Was our pay not good enough? Joye!”

The maid snapped to attention at the sound of her name. “Y-yes milord?”

“Do you have any idea where he might have gone?”

Joye hesitated. “W-well, milord, he did often speak of the men he had under his command back in Limsa.”

“Of course!” In that one moment, Stephanivien’s enthusiasm returned. He returned his attention to the device he had been fiddling with when Romarique had entered. 

“Yes, my prospectometer does seem to be pointing towards Outer La Noscea! Come, Joye, we depart at once!” Stephanivien immediately moved to leave, and Romarique was hardly in the state of mind to stop him. Whatever they were talking about may have concerned Romarique’s impromptu education, but that didn’t mean he had to understand it.

Thankfully for Stephanivien’s continued existence as a living being, however, Joye did have the knowledge and experience needed to keep up with him. “But milord!” she exclaimed as she hastily grabbed him by a sleave. “There are so many dreadful tales about Lominsans! L-like they’ll punch you in the face before they so much as say hello! Not to even mention all the beasts that roam throughout Vylbrand!”

Stephanivien drew to a halt and cast a contemplative glance over his shoulder at Joye. “W-well yes,” he said, voice wavering slightly, “I cannot deny having heard such tales myself. However!” The speed at which Stephanivien proved able to regain his composure continued to impress. Less impressive, for a multitude of reasons, was that Romarique didn’t need his gift of the echo to tell just what turn the conversation was about to take. “Fortunately, if I am not mistaken, our newest recruit seems to be one of those adventurer sorts!”

“I am the best.” The statement was out of his mouth before Romarique had time to consider how it would sound to his latest acquaintances. It wasn’t a lie, certainly, but it also did not sound like the blunt, honest truth he had intended it to be.

“Ah, and such confidence!” Stephanivien grinned, still yet oblivious to just who he was about to rope along for his search for his wayward employee. “Surely to an adventurer such as yourself, walking through the wilds of La Noscea but be akin to taking a stroll along a garden path.”

Romarique shrugged and turned his head in a vain attempt to hide a grin. “’Tis true. The only beast in Outer La Noscea that could match me is possibly Titan.”

“Well, then, I do believe we have all we need!” Yet again, Stephanivien made to march out the door of Skysteel. However, this time it was Romarique who stopped him, and he needn’t even resort to physical means to do so.

“I cannot be seen.”

“Huh?”

“I am in Ishgard for a reason. If I must leave, none outside can see me.”

“Could… could you not pretend to be someone else who merely resembles you?” Stephanivien offered. “Yes, yes! We shall get you a manufactory uniform and—“

“I am rather distinctive.”

For the first time since the two had met, Stephanivien took the time to truly take in Romarique’s appearance. Even for an elezen, he was notably tall, standing a good few ilms above average. The colour of his skin was not unlike the sky on a moonless night: a deep, cool blue that was only a few shades removed from outright black. In stark contrast, his hair was just about the exact opposite, a shade of blue so pale it could easily be mistaken for white. Continuing his general blue-ness were his eyes, though they leaned towards the side of teal and were backed by the quiet yet unyielding spirit that was part of his fame. Finally was his attire, a bright white robe trimmed with gold and silver, with matching gloves and boots made of light plate. It had been quite the impressive outfit, before it had started to reek of sweat and sulphur.

“Joye, I am afraid that it seems we will have to talk to any Lominsans by ourselves. Though, uh, do get him a uniform anyway, in case he wants to change. Or I make him change.”

\---------------------------------------------------------

Though it lacked the sheer style of his daystar attire, there were aspects where Romarique’s new Skysteel uniform won out, most of them falling under the category of ‘practicality’. It could breathe, for one, and had a general lack of long flowing parts with a nasty habit of getting caught on things. The fit was tighter than he was used to, being much more form-fitting, but it still afforded him a full range of movement. All in all, Romarique had had to give it his adventurer’s stoic nod of approval, though Joye and Stephanivien had been unsure how to take the silent gesture.

In what Romarique was almost certain was some sort of Hydaelyn-sent miracle, the trio’s airship ride was wholly uneventful. Even procuring said airship had been rather simple, given Stephanivien’s heritage. The three spent the ride initially doing their own things; Joye polishing a firearm, Stephanivien fiddling with some new invention, and Romarique stealthily hiding that he was simply filling out word puzzles by pretending to be working on some new theories of arcanamia. Eventually, however, Romarique ran out of crosswords (his job meant his knowledge of Eorzean trivia was exceedingly vast), and so in an attempt to pass the time, he decided it was as good a time as any to begin learning about machinistry.

Stephanivien had tentatively dubbed the device he was working on the ‘Rook Autoturret’, and was intended to provide additional supportive fire using the aether collected by the Aetherotransformer. Shockingly, it was working almost entirely as intended – as any mage would testify, blasts of lightning aether stung quite a bit. The issue was arising in the fact that the hovering contraption lacked any sort of stabilisation. Though it was quite capable of remaining airborne, the turret itself would spin uncontrollably in place on a vertical axis, resulting in an unpredictable spread of fire that helped absolutely nobody.

It wasn’t the most comforting fact for Romarique to learn as his introduction to the job.

Joye, at least, had the courtesy to teach him how to not kill himself with a firearm. Having run across the realm from the Shroud to Limsa before he found somewhere willing to believe that no, really, he did just want honest work, he had a better grasp of the concept of guns than most Eorzeans. More than ‘nothing at all’ still largely amounted to ‘barrel points at bad guy and makes a loud noise’, but a start’s a start. The gun itself had a pleasant weight, though more due to its size than for any practical reason like a sword or axe, and fit rather comfortably in his hand. Joye didn’t allow him to do much more than that within the confines of the airship, however, and Romarique was quite happy to defer to her more experienced opinion on that being a bad idea.

After what felt like all too long, the airship arrived at its destination. Long, uneventful trips didn’t sit well with Romarique, but the other two didn’t seem to mind.


	2. Fanfic!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's fanfic! About the game's plot! but with my WoL. But also mostly from his convenient twin brother's PoV.

It was, supposedly, a nice day. The sky above seemed to stretch out forever, nearly blindingly blue. A strong yet warm wind was blowing, enough to speed the boat across the Strait of Merlthor as it headed to Limsa Lominsa without chilling those aboard to the bone. As for the water itself, it was calm enough that sea sickness was of little concern, with just enough waves to make it look like so many shifting crystals in the sunlight.

Yvelont Portelaine was not yet versed enough in the ways of life outside a cave to understand any of that. Perhaps, if he were to step out onto the deck and gaze upon the shimmering waters, he would be slightly further along to understanding, but his brother had passed out a few minutes ago and could hardly be left alone. His unwillingness to explore was entirely unrelated to that inescapable sense of unease he felt without a ceiling over his head. Where would one ever get an idea like that?

Romarique’s head lolled about with the rocking of the ship, mouth agape. He didn’t look troubled, but wasn’t exactly peaceful, either. His fingers twitched, but otherwise the elezen man was completely limp.

“Is yer friend there alright?”

Yvelont’s focus snapped to the questioner: a blond hyuran fellow with a rather rough appearance. “Er, brother, actually, and yeah, he’s fine,” he stammered in response to the unexpected question. “It happens to us sometimes, he’ll wake up eventually.”

So it was that, the moment those words left Yvelont’s mouth, Romarique began to stir, as if whatever god was in charge of such things had a sense of humour. He groaned and pulled himself from the back of the bench the brothers were sitting on, rubbing his face in his hands. The hyuran fellow strode on over to his side and gave the groggy duskwight a few solid pats on the back.

“Weird dream…” was all Romarique could mumble out in response.

The hyuran fellow pulled back from Romarique and looked him over. Once his gaze fell upon Romarique’s face, he paused briefly, glancing back and forth between the two brothers. “Twins, eh?” he mused. “How’d I miss that? Seem to be a lot o’ yer sort around lately.” Briefly distracted from his initial thoughts, the man looked over his shoulder towards a pair of white-haired wildwood twins. Unlike the blue-so-pale-it-was-effectively-white-haired duskwight twins, they were of the fraternal sort – a boy and a girl – and still far from their adult heights.

“But that ain’t important,” the man said as he returned to his original train of thought. “It doesn’t look t’ be seasickness, so it’d be the aether, I reckon. Some folks’re more sensitive to it than others, y’see. How’s ‘bout we step out on deck? Some fresh air should do ya some good.”

Yvelont’s eyes widened at the suggestion, though the hyur didn’t seem to notice. Neither did Romarique, for that matter, who simply nodded and got to his feet. Still a few notches short of lucidity, he staggered as he readjusted to the ship’s gentle swaying. The hyuran fellow tried to help keep him steady, an effort hindered by the size difference between the two but appreciated nonetheless (or it would be in a minute when Romarique’s brain finally caught up). Yvelont pursed his lips as the two began to head off towards the stairs leading up to the deck. It was with a sigh that he got up and followed.

A small, distressed, rather unmanly noise came from Yvelont as he stepped out onto the deck, though neither of the two he was following seemed to notice. He watched as the two made their way towards the ship’s rails, trying desperately not to heed the vast stretches of nothingness all around him. With a moment to steel his resolve and a deep breath, Yvelont walked over to join them at a slightly-too-brisk pace.

“See, whadid I tell ya?” the hyur said with a proud smile. “Bet you’re feelin’ better already, eh?”

Romarique’s gaze remained fixated on the horizon, eyes wide. The only vocal response he gave was a squeak.

“That’s about as much as you’ll get from him,” Yvelont explained, hoping that wobble in his voice wasn’t too evident. “He isn’t much one for words.”

“I… see.” The hyur turned to face Yvelont. “I’m Brennan, by th’ way.”

“Yvelont,” said twin offered in kind, “my brother’s name is Romarique.”

“Nice t’ meetcha both,” Brennan said with a smile. “If y’ don’t mind me askin’, what brings the two of ye to Limsa? Folks like you aren’t exactly a common sight ‘round, well, jus’ ‘bout anywhere.”

I wonder why, Yvelont thought to himself, knowing full well he could rattle off quite the list of reasons if he felt so inclined. “We’re hoping we might find out what causes us to pass out sometimes. I know you said you think it’s aether but, uh, no offence if we don’t take that as a full diagnosis. Gridania was hardly accommodating of us when we first set out, though, and the only work we could find in Ul’dah was… less than savoury.”

“Selfish heartless _bastards_ ,” Romarique spat.

“That they were, Rom,” Yvelont sighed. “Everyone looks at us and assumes we’re thieves or bandits or what have you, y’know? We just want some honest work while we look for our answers.”

Brennan nodded solemnly. “What kind o’ work would ye be lookin’ fer?”

“Adventurer.”

“It’s about the only line of work we have any hope of getting, by our reasoning,” Yvelont elaborated for his brother. “And if Limsa’s reputation is anything to go by, it’s also the place least likely to give a damn about any possible link to banditry.”

“Ye got the right of it, there, lad,” Brennan looked out over the ocean, towards Vylbrand coming into view. “If anythin’ there’s prob’ly some folks who’d consider that a plus on yer resumes. Though perhaps not th’ sort of people ye’d want t’ take work from, those.”

“Oh, trust me, we know what sort of people to look out for now.” Yvelont crossed his arms and looked down at the deck, partly out of disgust that he’d had to develop such a skill in the first place, partly as an excuse to look away from the sky for a few moments. He let his gaze linger somewhat overlong at the well-trodden wood, and Brennan didn’t seem likely to interrupt his moment of introspection.

“Boat.” Romarique, on the other hand, had no such conniptions, though given he’d spent the whole conversation staring out to sea it was possible he simply hadn’t noticed.

“Yes Rom,” Yvelont sighed, “we are on a boat.”

“ _Another_ boat,” Romarique retorted, finally tearing his gaze away from the seemingly endless horizon to look at his brother with a mildly offended expression. He pointed in the general direction he had been gazing, where there was indeed another ship. The other vessel was moving at quite a clip towards them, drawing nearer and nearer with no sign of slowing. Yvelont found himself having to avert his eyes as the vast swaths of nothingness around him made his stomach churn, but Romarique and Brennan kept watching on.

“Shite,” Brennan muttered as the ship drew close enough for him to see it in some detail. He didn’t get a chance to explain before a cannonball aimed at their vessel did so for him. The blast rocked the ship, sending Yvelont to the floor and leaving Brennan and Romarique clinging to the rails.

“ _Yvelont!_ ” Romarique screamed. He reached out towards where his brother lied sprawled out on the floor, but even with an elezen’s arm length he was well too far away. Without a moment’s hesitation, Romarique let go of the railing and used the momentum of the ship’s rocking to rush over to his brother’s side. He scooped his brother up in one arm before he realised that he hadn’t exactly come up with a part two of his heroic plan to save Yvelont. With nothing within arm’s reach, the end result was mere that there were now two rather large elezen sliding across the deck.

“ _Pirates!_ ” came the cry from a deckhand for the benefit of anyone who had failed to put two and two together. “All passengers, below deck!”

The twins would have been more than happy to oblige, were it not for the fact that right as the ship steadied enough for the two of them to stand, it was struck once more and they found themselves sliding once again. Brennan, having the benefit of familiarity with Lominsan waters, had made his way to the stairwell leading below without having had to wait for the deckhand’s announcement. He didn’t, however, seem ready to go down, clutching to the doorway as he watched the twins try in vain to get up.

Fortunately for the twins, their predicament was hard to miss. Less fortunately was the fact that the roegadyn sailor who spotted them decided the fastest way do get them to safety was to kick them, changing their trajectory towards the stairs. Brennon pressed himself against the wall to avoid getting collected by the two as they went sliding down the stairs. All the other passengers watched as the two screamed and bumped their way down, with no indication of why. A deathly silence fell over the passengers as the watched the groaning brothers lie on the floor, with only the shouting of sailors and sounds of cannonfire to fill it.

Yvelont was the first one to sit himself up, wincing through gritted teeth as he ran a hand over all the bumps he’d gotten as he’d slid down the stairs. He was likely to be aching for a few days at least, he figured, though at least his dark blue skin would do well to hide his bruises from any potential employers. As for Romarique, now that he was disentangled from his brother, he seemed quite content to lie spreadeagled on the floor, staring up at the ceiling.

“Rom?” Yvelont said softly, giving his brother’s nearest arm a gentle shake. The shorter-haired twin looked away from the ceiling and met his brother’s gaze with a grin, throwing in a thumbs up for good measure. Yvelont let out a deep sigh of relief and leaned back against the wall as Romarique returned to studying the ceiling. With the two brothers calmed down, Brennon was finally free to descend the stairs with reasonable confidence that he wouldn’t get caught by a flailing elezen.

The sounds of shouting and the occasional ship-rocking blast continued for several minutes, a time during which hardly anyone uttered a word. Some people chose to pray, those with a traveling companion stayed close, and not a soul dared ask the question hovering in the back of all their minds.

Not that Romarique and Yvelont needed spoken words to feel just how scared everyone was. It was like a great weight upon their very souls, an inescapable force that made the air thick and hard to breathe. The sensation only grew worse and worse as the minutes dragged on and the passengers grew more uncertain.  
Eventually, one of the ship’s sailors – a sea wolf fellow to the surprise of nobody – came down the stairs. He didn’t even have to say anything to get the attention of everyone.

“We escaped them, they shouldn’t be able to catch us now we’re going full speed.”

There was no round of cheers, though quite a few people let out a sigh. The weight on the brothers’ souls melted away, and Romarique finally picked himself up off the floor to sit beside his brother. They turned to look at each other, and Romarique offered a weak smile. Yvelont returned the expression and added a nod. “That would have been a bit of a sorry end to our search,” Yvelont said, “wouldn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Romarique responded with a chuckle, though the deep breath that followed made it clear it was hardly the jovial kind of laugh.

“We’re safe now, we’re safe.” Yvelont’s words trailed off and he looked out at the rest of the common area the passengers were in, though he was less watching what was happening and more just happened to have his eyes facing that way. “We might be stuck on Vylbrand for a while though, not sure I’ll want to get on another boat any time soon.”

“We could find a nice cave.”

“Hah!” the suggestion put a genuine smile on Yvelont’s face. “And we could scare any passing miners! The enigmatic duskwights of La Noscea!”

Romarique grinned and laughed. Hearing it wasn’t enough to make Yvelont start laughing too, but it certainly lifted his mood. Before they could make any concrete plans on becoming Lominsan cryptids, however, Brennan came over.

“Good t’ see you two ain’t too traumatised by alla that,” he said.

“Well, I can’t speak for Rom, but I’m going to be feeling that trip down the stairs for a few days,” Yvelont said back with a sheepish grin.

“Me too,” Romarique added, rubbing a tender place on his elbow.

“Well, tha’s better than the alternative.” An awkward silence fell over the three of them, as one may expect to happen when people suddenly confront the fact that they may well have barely avoided death by pirate just a few minutes ago.

“Anyway!” Brennan said with a start “I suggest ye start getting’ yer belongings together, we should be arrivin’ soon, an’ I doubt ye’d like t’ still be on board when th’ ship departs again.”

The brothers watched as Brennan wandered off to – presumably – take his own advice. Neither of them wanted to say that their belongings largely amounted to what they were wearing. Their clothes were simple and practical: loose fitting, durable material, thick gloves and tall boots to protect their hands and legs. Romarique had fully embraced his blueness from a young age and tended to wear blues, blacks, and whites, while Yvelont generally preferred shades of green; traits that they hadn’t abandoned when they’d left the caves. Though they usually preferred to distinguish themselves with their outfits, Yvelont had made the outfits discreetly and quickly in the hopes of finishing before anyone caught on to their plans. It had proven much more efficient for him to reuse the same patterns for the both of them: being twins meant the fit was good despite it going against his every ounce of good sense as a tailor. That wasn’t to say he didn’t find places to add some flare; he’d made sure to use nice, silver clips and buckles wherever such things were needed (and a few places they weren’t, for style).

Romarique’s contribution seemed, at first glance notably less useful: two sets of herb-filled clay urns, each brother having two hanging from their belts. They had a pleasant smell – which was certainly appreciated on boat trips, to be sure – but otherwise seemed to serve little practical purpose. In truth, every part of their construction was vitally important. The type of clay, the patterns etched upon their surface, the shape, the glazes, the make of the stoppers, the exact volumes and ratios of the herbs inside, even the heat they’d been fired at were all calculated and precise. The end result was that they passively manipulated the aether around them into wards of varying effects. A pomander of purity and a pomander of strength each; as long as they kept them by their sides, the brothers would have little need to fear illness and their strength would take longer to fail them. Romarique knew little of the surface before the brothers had left on their little adventure, but felt that such traits would prove quite universally beneficial.

Apart from that, their possessions amounted to a worn old bow, with a makeshift quiver Yvelont had had to make for himself filled with a meagre supply of arrows. It had been an oh so generous ‘gift’ from the archer’s guild in Gridania, and the amount of hoops they’d had to go through to be given so much as that to defend themselves had been enough to make Romarique scream at least three times. It had been so bad the two of them didn’t even consider going through the whole process again to get Romarique a weapon and left immediately for Ul’dah.

Just as Brennan had said, it was not long at all before the ship arrived at port, though it was still more than enough time for Yvelont to collect his sorry-looking bow. The brothers passed the minutes by running over their plan for once they arrived in Limsa: find the Adventurer’s guild, find a weapon for Romarique, find a job. It all sounded so simple when summarised, but if it were as simple as it sounded they never would have had to leave Gridania, and then Ul’dah. Brennan stopped by the pair as they chattered to ask if they wanted to watch the city-state come into view, though both brothers were content to stay below deck for as long as possible. The next interruption was a sailor announcing that the ship had safely docked: they were officially in Limsa Lominsa.

With so few possessions, the brothers were among the first to disembark, not that they’d gotten to know many of their fellow passengers. The ferry dock did not offer much of a view of Limsa itself, though it was immediately obvious that despite being in a city, they were hardly on what would consider ‘ashore’. The waters still surrounded them, waves gently lapping against the limestone pillars Limsa was built into. Yvelont closed his eyes and sighed, willing himself forwards step by step trusting that his ears could guide him. _It’s just a river_ he half-heartedly tried to convince himself as he followed the sound of people towards a massive, hollowed-out limestone pillar that was but one of many which the city consisted of. The people of Gridania and Ul’dah may not have been the most accommodating, but at least they’d had the common sense to build their cities on solid ground.

Romarique tugged gently at his brother’s sleeve as he continued to blindly stride onwards to what sounded like an enclosed space, snapping him out of his thoughts of earth and stone. The quieter twin pointed at a red-haired miqo’te woman sitting at a desk, her ears pressed flat against her head and mouth curled into the faintest of frowns.

“Do you have anything to declare, sir?” said her voice. _You just tried to walk straight past customs_ , said her expression.

“Oh, uh,” Yvelont stuttered as he tried not to think too hard on the fact that this was the foot he was getting off on in Limsa. Accidentally breaking laws was hardly a good start to becoming a well-respected adventurer.

As Yvelont tried to bring his mind out of its nervous stall, Romarique instead took charge. He pulled one of his pomanders from his belt and placed it on the woman’s desk. “Pomanders,” he stated. “Traditional warding methods, to keep us safe on our journey. Full of herbs, all edible. Please do not eat them though.”

The beguiled customs officer picked up the small urn and cast her eye across its design. She ran a finger across a red line that formed a crescent across the otherwise white finish, giving the digit a cursory look when the result was a mild tingling sensation from the aether stored in the clay.

“Please be careful,” Romarique said. “The finish is important. I do not have the tools to make another.”

The miqo’te’s ears perked and eyes widened at Romarique’s statement. “You made these?”

“Yes.”

“My…” she rolled it around in her hands some more before showing it to a bright blue aetherial creature that had climbed into her lap from beneath her desk. The fox-like construct sniffed at it briefly before running back under the desk and around the brothers’ legs, sniffing at the pomanders still around their waists. Satisfied with its search, it retreated back to its spot curled around its master’s feet. “Well, t’would seem that they do not contain anything illicit, though they are certainly fascinating pieces. For personal use, I presume?”

Romarique nodded. “Adventurers, not merchants.”

“I see,” she said, returning the pomander to Romarique. “Do you have anything else?”

“Clothes,” Romarique offered, despite that much being somewhat obvious due to the lack of people screaming about indecent exposure by the ferry dock. “Yvelont has a bow. And arrows.”

“What about yourself?” she asked as she wrote down Romarique’s declaration. “Surely you too have a weapon if you are adventurers.”

“I had a sword. Sold it for the ferry fare.”

“It was worth more than my sorry excuse of a bow,” Yvelont added, having finally gotten his mind back to a somewhat working state. He placed a hand upon his brother’s shoulder and gave a solemn nod, to which Romarique let out a breath and relaxed his muscles. “We’re kind of here as a last resort.”

“Well then,” the customs lady said, putting down her quill, “allow me to offer you two some advice. Do not be so open with that fact with potential employers. Plenty of young men such as you two come through here looking to be adventurers, you want to make people choose you over them, not give them a reason to pass you over.”

“Like we need to give them one,” Yvelont mumbled.

The customs lady gave him a sharp look, but said nothing of it. Instead she turned to Romarique, who took a step back at the sudden attention. “As for you, judging by your work, you are rather clever. The doors of the Arcanists’ Guild is always open to keen minds seeking to learn, you may just find some of our offensive techniques to be useful.” Spiel complete, she picked up her quill once more. “Names please.”

“Yvelont and Romarique Portelaine.”

The quill scratched against the paper as she wrote with perhaps unnecessary flourish. It was with a warm smile that she looked back up at the brothers. “You are free to pass, welcome to Limsa Lominsa!”

 

The people of Limsa Lominsa were thoroughly enjoying the pleasant weather, going about their business with smiles on their faces. Immediately after leaving the space that housed the ferry dock and Arcanists’ Guild, the brothers found themselves headed straight towards the unmistakeable racket of a market district. Hawkers shouting about this that and the other, each fighting to be heard over their competitors and the babbling crowd both.

“And I thought Ul’dah was supposed to be the merchant’s city,” Yvelont mused aloud.

“We have no gil,” Romarique added dejectedly.

Yvelont sighed and put an arm around his brother’s shoulder. Even if they couldn’t find an inn where they could stay, there was bound to be a hole in the ground _somewhere_. With a sigh and a gentle tug, Yvelont started to make his way forwards. The other passengers on their ferry were starting to wander on by them, a few paused briefly to steal one last look at the unusual pair of brothers, but most were quite eager to get on with whatever business they had to attend.

“Ah, there ye are!”

The voice caught the twins off guard, Romarique in particular doing an over-exaggerated spin and hop back to face the speaker. Yvelont yelped and recoiled, pulling his arm away from his brother as the sudden movement aggravated a tender spot from their fall down the stairs. Romarique grimaced at the reaction: he certainly hadn’t been intending to cause his brother even that mild bit of pain.

A hearty laugh brought the brothers’ minds back to what had caused their little incident in the first place. Brennan had walked up behind the two, footsteps disguised among those of the other passengers. “Still a bit shaken after all that, are ye?”

“I hit him,” Romarique said for Yvelont. “Sorry.”

Yvelont rolled his eyes and decided to return the ‘favor’ with a brotherly punch to his upper arm. “Could you blame us if we were?” he responded to Brennan, satisfied that the punch was all he needed to say to Romarique.

“Har! Ye’ll have t’ get use t’ worse than that if ye want t’ be adventurers!”

Romarique’s eyes widened and then narrowed, a critical gaze that could bore into a soul.

“Well, maybe if ye become th’ real famous sort,” Brennan added after Romarique’s reaction. “Most adventurers don’ ever do much more than th’ easy jobs.”

“I think we’ll focus on getting started before we worry about any of that,” Yvelont said before his brother had a chance to make any more strange sounds in lieu of actual words.

“Well, in that case,” Brennan pointed behind the brothers, towards the market area, “head straight through Hawker’s Alley an’ ye’ll reach the Aetheryte Plaza, ye’ll find Bulwark Hall nearby. Take th’ elevator t’ Th’ Drowning Wench an’ talk t’ Baderon, he’ll get the two o’ ye all set up t’ be adventurers ‘ere in Limsa.”

“I, uh, thank you,” Yvelont stammered, starting to get rather overwhelmed with all the genuine advice they seemed to be receiving.

“We will do so,” came Romarique’s reply. He had a warm smile on his face, in contrast to his brother’s wide eyes. “Your kindness is appreciated.”

“Ah, don’ mention it,” Brennan said. “I actually wanted t’ give the two o’ ye summin’, as way of sayin’ thanks fer keepin’ me company.”

The brothers watched on curiously as Brennan reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of rings. They were far from flamboyant, one made of grey horn and the other dull electrum. The horn ring bore decorative engravings around its band, while the electrum one featured a crest of some sort not unlike a stylised flower. Otherwise they were completely plain, with no gems or anything else of the sort. Romarique picked up the electrum ring and looked it over curiously, leaving the other for his brother.

“They ain’t much, I know,” Brennan said as Yvelont took the horn ring from him. “But if ye ever need a reminder that the whole world ain’t against ye…”

Yvelont smiled as he put the ring on his right hand. “Thank you, Brennan. You keep us in mind, you hear? They’ll be singing our praises in due time.”

“I’ll take ye up on that promise! Maybe I’ll even hire the two o’ ye some day!”

And so it was on that note that they said their farewells and parted ways. Brennan headed back towards the ferry dock to handle whatever mercantile business he had there, while the brothers took his directions towards the Aetheryte Plaza. Hawker’s Alley was as busy as it had sounded, and the brothers found themselves having to fight against the flow of the crowd more than once – though the fact that they towered over a decent portion of said crowds helped. Yvelont counted his blessings that the marketplace was not entirely outdoors; in fact, most if not all of the stalls seemed to sit inside corridors. Though they may have preferred a slightly less open plan, there was a certain familiarity in how the city seemed to be built into stone, rather than merely of it that struck a chord within the brothers’ hearts.

The Aetheryte Plaza was impossible to miss, the massive blue crystal for which it was named serving as a beacon just as well in the physical realm as it did the aetherial. It floated lazily in place, light reflecting from its many facets and dancing into any and all nearby shadows as it slowly spun. Even in such bright sunlight it gave of a soft glow, tinting the stone and grass around its base blue. People were congregated in the circular plaza, some waiting for companions to finish their shopping or other business, some enjoying the pleasant weather together. The brothers even happened to catch the distinctive _fzzzt-stchwee_ sound of some people teleporting in over the sounds of chatter and the Aetheryte’s own gentle hum.

Bulwark Hall was impossible to miss, being both straight across the plaza from the market hall, and built into the largest pillar of them all. As if that wasn’t enough, it was the only building that was directly adjacent to the plaza other than the market hall the brothers were just leaving. The brothers shared a glance before they stepped out into the sunshine, warmth hitting their skin. They made their way past the people in the plaza side by side in lock step, eyes focused on the aetheryte before them. It was far from the first time they’d seen one in their travels; they’d even stopped by a smaller one on their way through Hawker’s Alley. Despite the commonness of it all, the moment carried an odd weight of finality. They had made their way across land and sea and born witness to every city state in the Eorzean Alliance. Ancient trees older than the legacies of their people, deserts vast and unforgiving, waters that stretched out further than they could even begin to comprehend. Their parents had never even once stepped foot outside the caverns they’d called home.

The twins reached out their hands and let the energies of the aetheryte wash over them, to cling unto their very souls, so that no matter where they were, they could find it. Nobody around payed the action any heed. It was a reasonably common occurance.

“Right then,” Yvelont said once it was all done, “onwards we go.”

Romarique smiled and nodded, and so the two moved on.

Bulwark Hall was roughly the same size as the plaza outside, though it unsurprisingly had such features as walls and a roof. Though perhaps saying it had walls in plural was a bit of a misnomer, since it, like much of Limsa’s structures, was as circular as the pillar it was carved from. A large pillar surrounded by a shallow water feature took up much of the hall’s centre, and a pair of miqo’te sisters were working as guides by it. Yvelont had to commend their professionalism, for they quickly and accurately directed them to the elevator that wouldn’t lead to an awkward incident with the Admiral. They did not, however, manage to conceal their surprise at seeing the two duskwights stride in until Yvelont asked them directions and they could fall back on their experience as guides. It wasn’t the fun kind of surprise, Yvelont saw how they stole glances at the Yellowjackets stationed around. But hey, at least they did their job nevertheless.

The Drowning Wench turned out to be an alehouse that occupied the second floor of the pillar. Despite being the same size as Bulwark Hall downstairs, it felt much larger and more open – due in no small part to the lack of a pillar in the middle of it. There was no lack of business, either, even though the sun still yet hung high in the sky. Sitting, standing, and just generally loitering around were many a soul – some boisterous, some weary. Said clientele also showed quite a bit more diversity than there had been on the lower decks. Sure, there were roegadyn among their numbers, but they did not equal the number of miqo’te and lalafell combined as they had in the markets. There were also of course hyur – there was a reason they had a reputation for being everywhere after all – but the brothers even spotted a fellow elezen with distinctive pale grey skin.

Romarique smiled. When was the last time they’d seen a fellow duskwight? It had been far too long.                   

Yvelont was the one to take the first step forward, the movement snapping Romarique from his sudden pangs of homesickness. There was, unfortunately, no convenient sign pointing to the Baderon they were looking for, life could never be so easy. Whoever he was supposed to be, Brennan had seemed certain he would be at the Drowning Wench, which meant they were either looking for regulars or a member of staff. With that thought in mind, Yvelont lead his brother towards the bar. It was built into the wall adjacent to the lift, so it was close enough by, and if they _were_ looking for a regular, surely the barkeeper would know them.

Said barkeeper was a hyuran fellow, brown hair held back in a bandanna. He was busy looking over a collection of spirits up against the wall. It wasn’t until Yvelont politely cleared his throat that he noticed the two elezen who had walked up behind him. “Well,” he said after a brief moment of looking at their chests before realising the height of the two, “what can I do fer the two o’ ye?”

“We were told to look for someone named Baderon and-“

“Ah, fledgelin’ adventurers, are ye?” the barkeep said, cutting Yvelont off. “Well ye came t’ th’ right place. I’m th’ Baderon ye seek, an’ I’m in charge o’ th’ Lominsan branch o’ the ‘Venturer’s Guild.”

“…There’s an Adventurer’s Guild?” Yvelont asked, trying to ignore that sinking feeling in his stomach that they may have been able to avoid no small amount of trouble if they’d only known earlier.

“Aye,” Baderon responded, “need to keep the lot o’ ye in line some’ow. Wait there jus’ a moment an’ I’ll get ye all set up.”

The brothers watched as Baderon vanished beneath the bar, when he reappeared had a heavy tome in hand. He placed it on the bar facing the brothers and opened it up for them, to a section that had roughly half a page blank. “I’ll need ‘t get yer names fer records sake,” he explained as he handed Yvelont a quill.

Yvelont looked at the writing implement in his hand, then to the registry, before bashfully handing it over to his brother who dutifully filled in their details for him. Romarique looked over as he returned the quill to Baderon, giving his brother a smug, toothy grin that said more than words ever could.

“Shut up.” Yvelont looked away, arms crossed.

“Romarique an’ Yvelont Portelaine, fine names ye have there, lads,” Baderon mused to himself as he put the book back away. “Congratulations. The two o’ ye are now upstandin’ members o’ the ‘Venturer’s Guild.”

“Th-that’s it?” Yvelon said with a start, the brevity of it all bringing an abrupt end to his brief sulk. “I didn’t even technically sign anything…”

“An’ do ye have an issue with yer brother – fergive the assumption but it seems pretty bloody obvious – signin’ fer ye?”

Yvelont stole a glance at Romarique, who was eyeing his brother with wide eyes – a stark bright green-blue that stood out almost as well as their pale hair against their dark skin. “Well, no…” Yvelont conceded. He had, after all, been the one to hand the quill off.

“Then I don’ see a problem. Ye’d hardly be the first aspirin’ ‘venturer who never learnt his letters.”

Yvelont cringed, feeling the sting of the words far more keenly than he’d like to admit.

“I have offered,” Romarique said gently. “At least your name.”

“The two o’ ye can sort this out on yer own,” Baderon said, stopping the pair before they could wander too far away from the matters at hand. “Fer now, ‘ow ‘bout some advice on startin’ yer careers?”

The brothers snapped to attention, all thoughts of Yvelont’s education (or lack thereof) pushed to the back of their minds.

“First of all,” Baderon said beneath the twins’ attentive gazes, “I’d suggest ye take some time t’ get yer bearin’s ‘round the town. Ye’ll find a lotta folks’ll be hirin’ ye fer work ‘round town ‘till ye build up a reputation. Limsa can be dangerous to even the folks who live ‘ere, an’ that means good work, bu’ there’s plen’y o’ those… _unsavoury_ sorts out there who’d love t’ take advantage o’ some green ‘venturers.”

“Always,” Romarique snarled, arms crossed.

“Aye,” Baderon nodded morosely. “Them Serpent Reavers always be lookin’ fer more folks t’ enthral t’ their masters’ godsdamned primal.”

“I… see,” Yvelont said, and even Romarique came out of his brief fume to run the meaning of the sentence through his mind once more. The individual words had meaning, but the brothers weren’t quite certain how they applied to the situation. The use of ‘enthral’, at least, was mildly unnerving.

“Be grateful ye don’t,” Baderon said, seeing the uncertainty plain on the brothers’ faces. “But that’s ‘nough o’ all those unpleasantries. If either o’ ye be interested in learnin’ t’ defend y’self like a Lominsan, the Marauders’ an’ Arcanists’ Guilds be always recruitin’. Now off with ye! Only so much time in a day! An’ remember t’ keep yer ears open – assumin’ the size o’ those ears o’ yers ain’t jus’ fer show – never know when ye might find some folks lookin’ fer help. Once ye reckon ye’ve got ye bearin’s, com bak ‘ere an’ I might ‘ave some work for ye.”

The brothers said their farewells and thank yous (or rather, Yvelont did and Romarique bowed) and walked away from the bar. Thankfully, what with the nature of the drowning Wench, they didn’t have to look very far for a place to discuss their next course of action. They claimed an empty table for themselves, pulling up chairs that were probably built with roegadyn ladies in mind, but were a close-enough fit for two large elezen men.

“Can we trust him?” Yvelont immediately went to the first matter on their minds.

“He feels nice.”

Yvelont raised his eyebrows at his brother. “Feels?”

“Yeah, well, y’know, uh,” Romarique started to stammer and shift about restlessly in his chair. “Warm. Positive. Caring. Nice.”

Yvelont looked back at the bar, where Baderon was already talking to another adventurer. With the din of other chatter around them, neither brother could have quite made out the entire conversation even if they’d wanted to, but what they could catch seemed quite similar to their own.

“If he is not, he is surprisingly public.”

That much of Romarique’s assessment was certainly true. In Ul’dah, the less savoury employers the brothers had come across had kept to the shadows, in quiet alleys not often frequented by most, or even out in the deserts of Thanalan. But the Drowning Wench was in the middle of Limsa, and thriving at that. Baderon was either good to his word or the boldest man in Eorzea.

“So then,” having assessed the situation himself, Yvelont began feeling slightly more at ease, “assuming we can trust him, what shall we do now?”

“We need gil. I need a weapon.”

“One of those can lead to the other. I guess we just… ask around for work?”

“If work’s what you want, I might have some for you.”

The brothers snapped to attention to find that one of the waitresses at the Wench had come up to their table, as waitresses were want to do.

“I was just downstairs on my break, and I saw some strange purple flowers scattered all over Bullwark Hall.” The diminutive lalafellin lady climbed up onto a loose chair to be at the brothers’ level, eyes darting around to check for eavesdroppers. “I think it might be dream flowers.”

Romarique’s eyes grew wide. “Are you certain?”

“Well, I’m hardly a botanist, but either way, I’m certain the Yellowjackets would appreciate if you gathered them up for them. You can take them to Ahldskyf once you’re done, he’s the blue-skinned fellow usually standing just out of the Hall, towards the Aetheryte Plaza. He’ll be able to make sure they get to the Yellowjackets.”

“Thank you, ma’am, you can count on us!” Yvelont said a bit too loudly, catching the curious gaze of a few nearby adventurers. He shot to his feet and half-dragged Romarique out of his own chair and towards the elevator to Bullwark Hall, leaving the waitress rather surprised at the seemingly excessive response.

“Let’s spread out,” Yvelont said as the two stepped out of the elevator, leaving his brother’s side before Romarique had the chance to so much as ask if he even knew what somnus was.

He didn’t, Yvelont realised only after he was already quite a ways away from his brother. However, between the waitress’ description of ‘strange purple flower’ and the rather obvious flowers fitting that description lying in front of him, he hardly needed to fall back on his brother’s botanical knowledge to put two and two together. It wasn’t long at all before he had a handful of them, which he promptly marched over to Ahldskyf, secretly mildly proud to have beaten his brother in something even tangentially related to plants.

Ahldskyf took one of the flowers in his hand with a surprising level of gentleness; roegadyn had such massive hands that Yvelont wondered how they managed. “Dangerous stuff, somnus – that’s what these flowers are used to make,” he said grimly. “It’s said to be able to put people in an everlasting sleep.”

Yvelon puffed his chest out proudly, ready to be lauded for his service to Limsa.

“It’s lavender,” Romarique said bluntly, having just arrived with his own handful of flowers.

Yvelont’s heart sank. He’d never actually seen lavender, though remembered Romarique mentioning it once or twice as he’d studied the art of crafting pomanders. Either his brother was learning things of a far more dubious nature than he’d realised, or his service to Limsa amounted to little more than picking up some dropped flowers.

Ahldskyf’s uproarious laughter implied the latter.

“Forgive me! I could not resist the chance. These would be Althyk lavender, probably from cargo from my own ship at that. It would seem that your source has been having a bit of fun with you lads. Still, that’s hardly _your_ fault now, is it?”

Romarique opened his mouth, ready to offer a snide remark about the fact that he’d recognised the flowers while his brother hadn’t. He silenced himself, however, as he noticed that Ahldskyf was reaching into a pouch, taking from it a few coins.

“Work deserves pay, and I somehow doubt your initial client would be likely to do so.”

The brothers looked on with something nearing revenant looks as Ahldskyf handed the coins to Yvelont.

“Now, you lads are adventurers, correct?”

“Yes, sir,” Yvelont said.

“Well, as way of thanks for returning my lavender, how about some proper work?”

The brothers instantly perked up.

“I ran into a rather unkempt sailor in the Octant just recently, offered me a good amount of coin to direct any adventurers I find to him.”

“Oh, thank you!” Yvelont half-shouted.

“I haven’t finished yet!” Ahldskyf had to grab Yvelont’s shoulder to prevent him from running off with little more than a few words. “He was offering _too_ much coin for what a sailor should have, and with all the kidnappings lately…”

“Oh. _Oh.”_

Ahldskyf nodded. “My thoughts exactly. I’ve been busy managing my ship, so I haven’t had the chance, but could you go stop by East Hawker’s Alley and warn Glazrael?”

The brothers eagerly confirmed their willingness to perform the task and, after a quick confirmation that they now had the whole story, set off to do so. Glazrael appreciated the message and asked them to pass it on to a woman named Fryrbryda as well. Their enthusiasm was quickly noted by the crowds, and it was not long before someone approached them with another job. None of it was terribly glamourous, but neither brother ever balked from even the most menial of tasks. Delivering sandwiches to dubious organisations, delivering letters for beastmen, posing as customers, making sure the lamps still burned, they readily accepted every task. It wasn’t long before all the small change they earned began to add up and weigh rather comfortably in the coin purse on Yvelont’s hip. Though it remained still far from a fortune, they were also unlikely to need to worry about eating for at least that night. Romarique even felt comfortable enough with their funds that he excused himself to investigate the Arcanist’s guild. Yvelont was so caught up in the joy of feeling appreciated for the first time in too long that he didn’t even miss the extra pair of hands.

During a brief break between jobs, Yvelont looked out over the ocean, shining like so many shifting crystals in the sunlight. _This_ , he thought, _is a nice day_.


End file.
